


The Dragon's Maw

by taichara



Category: Tales of Destiny
Genre: Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:14:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything is over, the heroes have won, and in the belly of the Draconis Leon is finding himself sick and miserable.  But is it only flight that is bringing him misery?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dragon's Maw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roseargent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseargent/gifts).



A door slid smoothly open; footsteps, stealthy as a mouse, crept across the floor, and the tiny _ting_ of glass settling on a table top had barely chimed before the door closed swiftly on those same footsteps and their annoying blonde-maned owner.  Curled up in a huddle of misery, blankets cocooned around himself like a bulwark against the waves of pain and nausea that plagued him, Leon couldn't even muster the energy to hurl a few choice words at the meddler before Stahn was gone and the moment was lost.

 

_Damned witless, meddling idiot –_

 

Embarrassment burned more fiercely than his abused innards, and Leon let it.  Of all the fools to see him being weak, of _course_ it had to be that naive, thick-headed, too-trusting ...  Never even _mind_ the sheer brazenness of barging into his room not once, but _twice_!  It was just one more thorn of irritation added to the brace of irritations digging into him, not the least of which was the cursed illness that had promptly laid him out flat within hours of boarding the Draconis.

 

_Flying.  I hate flying, hate it ..._

 

The words rattled through his thoughts before he'd the wits to lock them down.  Swift on their heels was Chaltier’s concerned murmur in his head, speaking before he’d even realized he’d let the plaint slip.

 

_: The water he brought you may help, young Master, if only a little.  This flight is affecting you very strongly. :_

_I don't recall asking your advice –_

 

Uncurling slowly, Leon tugged at the bedclothes with shaking hands until he'd – more or less – freed himself and cast a bleary, regretful gaze around his bedchamber.  Dim, almost pitch-dark save for the single flickering lamp; the bed, of course, and the burnished table with its chairs and now the addition of a tumbler and water pitcher, glistening in the feeble light, the padded reading chair catty-corner to the table; the heavy steel-bound chest half-hidden by a splash of virulent rose and glittering sapphire where his cloak was thrown carelessly across it.  Beneath the bed – mercifully – the covered basins which were the only things that had kept him from completely humiliating himself once the nausea hit and his innards had gone into full revolt. 

 

And, next to the bed, the slim hooked stand on which Chaltier rested. 

 

Suddenly he was pricked by his own words, compounded with a distinct feeling of vulnerability.  Shaking with the effort, he fumbled Chaltier from his resting place, wobbled once, and promptly capsized backwards with a _whumph_ as his head connected with the damp pillows.  The sound he made could almost have been described as a chuckle; he could allow himself that.  There was only one person who could hear him, after all.

 

_... But you're probably right, Chal.  I'm desperately warm now, anyway._

Of course, that admission meant he had to reach the table and its pitcher.  It wasn't that far from the bed to the table, perhaps a dozen paces; in his current state of misery, it felt more like the ends of the world – not that he had any intention of allowing that to stop him.  Misery or no, he’d manage at least this much or he may as well let his shame kill him flat out altogether –

 

But, even so, by the time he'd reached it he was reeling and clutching the nearest chair for support with his free hand – he’d brought the Swordian with him on his tiny venture as a matter of instinct – while the world whirled around him and his gut threatened to begin heaving.  By the time the vertigo had passed he was more than happy to drink as much of the water as he dared, ignoring Chaltier's quiet chiding against drinking too quickly and then pressing the empty tumbler against his forehead, droplets running down his face.

 

That was when it dawned on him that the country idiot had invaded his privacy twice.  And here he was, standing in the middle of his room with nothing on aside from a slip of an undertunic.  Oh, if he was burning with embarrassment _now_ ...

 

_Not a chance –!_

 

It was amazing what the possibility of further humiliation could do even when one was barely standing upright.  Leon threw himself at the door with a kind of desperate fury, ignoring how the floor beneath him seemed to lurch (even though he knew, intellectually, that the Draconis flew more smoothly than any sea-ship that sailed) beneath his feet, threw the heavy doorbolt home, and staggered back towards his bed to collapse, sprawling, across the crumpled bedclothes.  Somehow he'd managed to not land on Chaltier when he did so.

 

Squeezing his eyes closed again, Leon passed a handful of minutes doing little more than concentrating on steady breaths and willing the room to stop spinning around him.  It really was stifling warm – or maybe he was fevered, and wasn't _that_ just a wonderful thought – and the last thing he felt like doing was actually trying to move off the comfortingly flat bed again ...

 

_: There is something else troubling you, isn't there.  Something aside from this temporary difficulty. :_

 

Bitter anxiety flared, and this time Leon made no effort to even consider locking it from the Swordian's senses.  It was nothing that Chaltier wasn't already long aware of, after all, and blocking took more energy than he was willing to use at the moment.  Instead he traced the curves of Chaltier's blade with unsteady fingertips, chewing on the inside of his cheek.   The metal was soothingly cold; sinking further against the pillows, Leon lay the blade flat against his chest, guard tucked under his chin and hilt pressed against the side of his jaw, and sighed as the chill instantly penetrated the thin linen of his undertunic.

 

_: Young Master ...? :_

_Humour me, it's not going to hurt you.  My head's still swimming and you're cold._

_... There's something else, Chal, yes.  But it doesn't matter._

_: I do not believe that. :_

 

Ghost sensation, the touch of phantom fingertips against his temples; Leon started, eyes fluttering half open, until the soft vibration of Chaltier's core crystal at the hollow of his throat soothed him into quiet.  He'd almost forgotten this, it had been so long – the last time he’d been ill?  Was that how long it had been?

 

Did it even matter? 

 

Relaxing inch by inch, blade still held loosely to his chest, he shook his head the merest fraction.

 

_You know what I did – what we're going to do – and why.  So, there it is.  That's what it is._

_: ... Yes, I know. :_

_And you're not going to try to convince me not to go through with the rest of it?  Those were your former comrades, even if they've chosen idiots and fools for masters._

_: You do not really consider them all fools, I don't believe.  Not entirely. :_

_: If you confided in them, if only concerning Marian, you could free her from your father's grasp and you would not need to continue to do this to yourself – :_

_Chaltier!_

 

The soft massage against his aching head missed not a beat; easing one eye open the merest crack, Leon could almost fancy that he could glimpse, at his shoulder, the shimmering echo of a mirage, a lean figure in ancient clothing who leaned over him, whose fingertips were buried in his own dark hair.  A flicker of phantom paleness in the pitcher on the table, dove-grey hair and faintest of smiles.

 

_: I will never gainsay you; you are my master, and I serve willingly.  I only want to see you happy.  Thus, I offered the thought.  If it distresses you so, I will not do so again. :_

_I don't trust them.  I can't trust them.  Only a fool trusts another human being._

 

Despite the relaxing coolness, the gentle ghost-touch, Leon tensed as a dark little laugh escaped, low and hoarse.

 

_As long as I go along with his plan, she's safe, and what happens to me doesn't matter.  If I told them, I'd be weak and they'd use that – and she'd become a target as surely as if I'd turned on him myself._

_: But you ... :_

_It really doesn't matter what happens, Chal.  You're here, that's enough for me.  One of them – probably Philia – will figure out the aura discs eventually, so your comrades won't be helpless forever if that's part of your concern._

 

Maybe it wasn't the best of plans.  Maybe.  But it was the only one that assured her safety; and if it meant his being the knife in their collective back, so be it.  Only a fool trusted another human being, and only the weak reached out to another ...

 

_... I'll deal with my- with Hugo.  They don't need to get involved._

 

Yes, he was almost certain he saw someone in the chamber with him, reflected in the pitcher; that was only reasonable, really.  He'd never thought to actually try to _look_ before this ...  He was feeling almost comfortable now, at that, a soft sigh escaping once as he relaxed and his eyes slid closed again to the sensation of gentle fingers in his hair.

 

_: ... It is enough, young Master, that you considered it. :_

_: Sleep now; I will always be here when you wake. :_

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
